“His nasties,” Estelle said, amused at Leona’s quaint turn of speech. “They’re certainly that. Unless we’re very lucky, I think we can expect another trail of bodies showing up…somewhere, sometime. We’re missing something. It’s that simple. That’s what I think.”
They rode in silence as they approached the airport from the west. “Why would he fly into Posadas, and then depend on a motorcycle?” Estelle asked. “That doesn’t make sense, except that it happened to be there. Hector knew about it, maybe even told his uncle beforehand that it was there. The little weasel might even have borrowed it for a joyride himself from time to time. But Tapia? Steal a car, yes. Rent a car, sure. Borrow a car. Why not? But a motorcycle? A dirt bike? What sense does that make? What’s more obvious than a bright red dirt bike, ridden by a fat middle-aged man?”
“Oh,” Leona corrected. “Burly. I don’t see fat. And it’s only obvious if the motorcycle happens to cross the path of someone who’s looking for it, or someone who cares. But you’ll piece it all together,” Leona said. “I’m confident of that.” She let out a sharp gasp and reached out a hand to the dashboard for support as Estelle braked hard. The undersheriff swung the Expedition off onto the shoulder, then cranked it around in a hard U-turn. As soon as the truck was squared away and accelerating hard, she reached for the mike.
“Estúpida, Estúpida,” she said, and keyed the radio. “Three-oh-eight, three-ten.”
For a moment the radio was silent, and then Sheriff Torrez’s quiet voice responded. “Three-oh-eight.”
“Ten-twenty?”
“At the airstrip, headin’ north.”
“Ten-four. I’m headed that way. Look, Chet Hansen is number 109. He just came off the mesa with Pasquale right behind him. They’ll be on the prairie by now, headed south on fourteen.”
“Okay.”
“I think we need a close escort for Hansen.”
“Ten-four. I’ll be twenty-one.” Torrez didn’t elaborate, but in a moment Estelle’s phone buzzed. With the county truck charging westbound at well over eighty miles an hour, she took her time finding and opening the gadget.
“Guzman.”
“So what’s going on?” Torrez asked. Estelle could hear his vehicle in the background.
“The three victims were involved somehow with Pemberton, Duquesne, and Cordova, Bobby. At least one of them worked for that firm. They were headed for Socorro-that’s what Hector tells us. Coincidence or not, the lieutenant governor is from Socorro. On top of that, Leona just reminded me that Chet Hansen’s brother was killed in a car wreck last year in southern Mexico, along with his family. Hansen took his construction company back after that.”
“Huh.” The sheriff’s grunt was noncommittal. “So what?”
“It’s the only thing we have,” Estelle said. “And this has been bothering me-why would Tapia want a dirt bike if he was headed to Albuquerque, like Hector claims he was? He wouldn’t. He’d want the bike if he’s going into the rough, if he’s going out in the boonies. And that prompts coincidence-or-not number three. Why did he come to Posadas this particular week? He made that very clear, Hector says. This was the correct date. So what’s going on this week? A cyclo-cross bike race. Our ex-lieutenant governor is in a well-publicized race right through the heart of our finest boonies. That’s opportunity, Bobby.”
“Yeah, well,” Torrez said, and he still sounded dubious. “There’s a hundred and thirty riders in the race, though. Might be a hundred and twenty-nine other targets. Might not be Hansen-if it’s anyone.”
“All I’m going on is the Mexican and PDC connection, Bobby. If you can look down the list of names and come up with someone else more likely, have at it.” She glanced at Leona, who was scanning the list as she spoke. The county manager looked at her and shook her head.
“I don’t recognize anyone else,” Leona said.
“We’re on the list right now,” Estelle continued. “Look, suppose that for whatever reason, this assassin is after Chet Hansen…or someone else participating in this race. Think about it. The race is a well-publicized convenience for him…close to the border, lots of hubbub.”
“And lots of opportunity,” Torrez interjected. “If a rider is the target, he’s got a nice big number pinned on him, front and back.”
“Absolutely.” She pulled into the passing lane to shoot past traffic. “But it’s too rough up on the mesa, and there are too many witnesses. Not hard to hide, or ambush, but way too hard to make a getaway. He’s too smart to let himself be trapped.”
“Huh. Everybody’s off the mountain?”
“Yes. Off and accounted for. At the same time, we don’t have much coverage all the way down County Fourteen. That’s thirty-one miles of opportunity, with plenty of escape routes. And in the country, a dirt bike is just the ticket. The terrain is open, and it’s just minutes from the border.”
The phone was silent. “Bobby, there’s evidence Tapia stayed in the house next door to the Uriostes. That’s saying he had some business here, not up north in Albuquerque. He might have told Hector that just as insurance-in case the boy was caught and decided to talk.”
“Makes sense.”
“Yes, it does. He didn’t even need the boy to feed him information beforehand. Anyone with a computer can find race information online, starting in February, when they posted the route map and started registering riders. The story Hector tells us coincides with all of that. And anybody can get a race program online, with the riders’ names and numbers. Like you said, a number front and back-that makes for a handy target.”
“Shit,” Torrez muttered. “He could just as well be after any name on that list. They’re strangers, most of ’em.”
“That’s right. They are. I’m going by only one thing…. Make that two. Number one, Hansen has had dealings with PDC in the past. Number two, his brother died in Mexico in odd circumstances. His body wasn’t even brought back to the States for burial. Why didn’t Hansen insist on that? It just doesn’t jibe. I might be wrong. But it makes sense to me.”
“We got nothing to lose,” Torrez said. “If it’s a hunch, follow it up. If you’re wrong, all we’ve done is waste a little gasoline.”
“Look, I’m coming in from the north,” Estelle said. “I’m probably closer to him than you are.”
“I’m on my way.” Torrez switched off, and Estelle dropped the phone on the seat beside her. She braked hard as they reached the check station. Six riders were guzzling fluids, and Estelle had time to see the expressions of surprise as the Expedition turned off the highway onto the dirt, red lights flashing, fishtailing as she applied power.
Leona murmured something and grabbed the panic handle.
“Keep a sharp eye,” Estelle said. “We’re going to be overtaking riders, and this road doesn’t give us a whole lot of room.”
“I’m watching when I don’t have my eyes closed,” Leona chirped.
For a mile, the county road ran arrow-straight, the prairie so dry that traffic had pounded the red soil into fluffy dust that billowed up behind the truck like a jet’s vapor trail. Just beyond a windmill and a large stock corral, the route jogged left around the base of a low mesa, cutting through the jumble of rocks that over the eons had calved off the mesa rim.
Estelle slowed. She didn’t want to roar up behind Pasquale and punt the deputy and his bike off into the piñons. At the same time, she saw that opportunity for ambush abounded, with harsh shadows making it hard to identify individual shapes under the trees or behind boulders. There would be a fair amount of traffic, but an ambush would take only seconds.